Relationships

Learn from the Lowly

lillian41 Comments

Do not be squeamish about the reptilian way.
It is in the leaving that release comes.
Rid oneself of dead skin,
not as a phoenix turns to ash
and rises again.
Rather as the serpent who uncoils,
shrugs off its past
and continues on.

shed-snake-skin2

Quadrille (44 words: no more no less; not including the title) written for dVerse. De asks us to write a quadrille that includes the word “leave” or a form of the word. dVerse is a virtual bar for poets and opens today at 3 PM Boston time. Come try your hand and post a quadrille of your own or just come to imbibe the words of others! dVerse offers prompts on Mondays and Tuesdays and most Thursdays are Open Link Night — a time to post a poem of your choice, without restraint or motivation of a prompt. Hope you’ll join us!

Misfit

lillian46 Comments

Like a magnificent crystal chandelier
in the wake of a coarse wind.
Swaying erratically. Shards of glass colliding.
Each piece hitting, pinging,
clinking cacophonously.
She felt like this.

Except she was enclosed. Caged.
Stifled in some cold garment.
Arms wrapped around her torso
in comfortless embrace.
And the ceiling was bare.
And the walls were bare.

But she was that fixture,
except without light.
—————————-

Sia – Chandelier (Official Video) – YouTube

Sharing with dVerse for OLN where Bjorn is hosting from Sweden.

THANKS to Bjorn for pointing me to this video after my poem was posted with the photo below.    Bjorn’s poem written on October 2015  was inspired by the video. I wasn’t aware of dVerse at that time and never heard the song or saw the video until Bjorn mentioned it. The video does uncannily fit Misfit which is very eerie!  Stop by dVerse to post your own poem (the more the merrier) or to imbibe/read other posts. Tis an amazing place!

chandelier-1004574_1920

For Sale

lillianLeave a comment

Hands scraped, pulled and peeled.
Stripped bare in three hectic days
she gave up secrets long unseen.
Layer upon layer
she revealed her past.

Mauve moons, café scenes
wedgewood-blue stenciled designs
pale rose buds the last.
Memories removed, she stood
waiting, exposed

until they came again.
Colors slathered, rolled.
Taupe, beige, and palest grey.
Senses dulled, she cowered,
pale in disbelief.

Windows wide-eyed,
she watched
as strangers came to gawk.
Pried her private parts,
talked as if she was not there.

Once so full of life and love,
a shell of what she was.
Homeless,
just a house
lifeless on the streets.

stockvault-pattern-grunge-texture125430studio-g-rosebud-fabric-chintz-f0299-01-9037-pCafe-Wallpaper-5d28402a77ca93dbc253970d3a5642819  MPC00036974-2grey

At the Gate

lillian39 Comments

The mare, so far away,
a sense of movement in the fields.

I stood watching,
belly nine months large.
Motion rippled through the grass
matched by rushing winds.

Mane flowing, she galloped toward me,
legs in synch with some internal pace
ears pinned against the breeze.
I stared, mesmerized.

She sauntered close,  approached the gate
then slowly turned and bent to graze,
beads of sweat upon her flanks
breathing deeply at her task.

I stood watching quietly
until arms jerked reflexively,
hands to back as waves within me
grew to jabs, a quickening pace.

And so I left the mare that day,
neighing softly in the winds.
She watched me as I’d watched her,
when I placed the latch upon the gate
and crosed the creek toward home.

horse-1024745_1920

Posting today for OLN at dVerse, the virtual pub for poets. Gayle opens the bar at 3 PM – drop in and imbibe some words!

The Forgotten Elderly

lillian32 Comments

They were left behind
like empty carts in a now empty parking lot.
Once touched, then guided by sure hands
doing for others, sometimes in steady sun,
or picking up the pace in life affirming rain.
They weathered storms until they could not.
And now they sit, in that mawkish pool of wet,
that sickening smell of decay.
They sit in a place where no one comes,
drowning in their memories.

photo-88

Photo by Janet Webb. Written for the incomparable Rochelle Wisoff-Fields Friday Fictioneers where we’re asked today, to respond to Ms. Wolf’s photo in 100 words or less. Word Count: 71.  Rochelle: please excuse the free verse rather than fiction today!

September 9, 2009

lillian2 Comments

And there they sat,
some agreed and some did not.
All taught as youth,
the tenants of democracy.
Respect the office
if not the man.

One voice spoke to all
until the word was harshly flung.
Liar! then gasps within the pause.
Heads turned to find the voice
whose tongue had struck,
lashed civility at its whipping post.

That word’s echo
replays throughout the land.
The fabric of decorum
a scrim forever rent,
as thread by shred
our dignity is torn.

U.S. President Barack Obama Visits Connecticut Town Where Massacre Still Fresh

Written in respons to a MOOC University of Iowa Writer’s Workshop assignment.
Explanation:  On September 9, 2009, President Obama was addressing Congress when South Carolina Representative Joe Wilson interrupted him by shouting “Liar!” There were audible gasps and stares. It was unprecedented for a president addressing Congress to be heckled. Representative Wilson later apologized and was formally rebuked by Congress. Some critics believe this was a watershed moment in the behavior of politicians. Somehow, I’ve always connected this event to the refrain in the song American Pie, “…the day the music died.”  In my mind, this was the day decorum died. 

I am cold

lillian27 Comments

Ice cube pressed to lips,
nostrils flare at exhales
as shoulders heave.

Ignore the oppressive humidity.
Ignore salt tears and warm blood.

Let ice cold droplets dilute the red,
drip to chin, to chest
stain rug.

He seemed different,
until he did not.

Studio shooting - copyspace

Walt is tending bar today, this third day of dVerse’s fifth anniversary. He asks us to write a poem that reacts to this quotation by Sebastian Barry from his novel A Long, Long Way:  “I am cold, even though the heat of early summer is adequate. I am cold becasue I cannot find my heart.”

Still Life

lillian59 Comments

Paint me a rose garden
petal by petal
thorn by thorn
a microcosm of life.

A primrose kind of gal
petite with pastel temper,
wed to a brooding man,
morose and prickly by nature.
They live in a rosemål house,
flowers etched in love.

Rosemaling+Petersburg+Alaska
It’s quadrille Monday at dVerse Poets’ Pub with Bjorn tending bar. He asks us to write a quadrille (poem of 44 words) using the word rose (primrose, morose, rosemal). Photo is an example of the Norwegian art of rosemal.